


Aftermath

by Spera_via



Category: Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic
Genre: Gen, PTSD?, Self Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-09-17 14:29:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9329033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spera_via/pseuds/Spera_via
Summary: What happens when the ghosts of one's past come to the forefront of one's mind.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was written after an RP where Trist was a guinea pig for his friend, Darth Sanno, to test her new serums on.

Trist stood in his room, staring out into the rain. His reflection blinked back at him, mirroring the creases in his brow, the frown on his lips.

Everything was fine until the last serum. Pain he could handle. Pain was nothing. 

The cold winds of Hoth had blown over him. He knew it before he had even opened his eyes.

Of course it was Hoth. Of course the planet had created a personal vendetta against him. Since he avoided the place, this time it chose to come to him.

Trist glared at his reflection before another wave of grief and shame washed over him. He watched his expression crumble before spinning away from the window and pacing the room.

They had been so real. The cadets from his Academy days. Zepp’o. Cecilia. They were standing in front of him, watching him. He could smell their burned skin. See their faces melt around their bones and the smoke rise from their blaster wounds. Blood trickled from their glassy eyes like tears, falling from their faces. The snow turned red around their feet. 

They all stared at him, some expressions curious, some blank, some accusing. 

“You’re dead.” He remembered telling them firmly. “You’re all dead.”

And yet. His hands clenched themselves into fists. There they stood. He almost reached out to touch C-53. Calling her by the name he knew her. She stepped away, confusion crossing her face.

The cold wind blew. They began to dance. 

He tried to step back from them, stumbled over something in the snow. 

Torchy edged forward, Trist edged back. Away. C-53 stepped around the obstacle between him and the group, Tris skittered even further away, his back against a wall of ice.

That was when the voices started.

“Why didn’t you save us Good Doctor?” C-53 asked. Her long dead voice echoed around him.

“You could have kept me alive,” Torchy told him. “You could have kept me alive just a bit longer.”

Trist tried pleading with them, his eyes scanning the crowd. He saw Sevens standing next to Cecilia. His face was passive, but Trist knew that accusing look in his eye. Cecilia looked as dead as he left her on Ilum, ice still crusted in her dark hair. A frown was set in her blue-tinged lips. Sevens said something and she moved away. Trist watched her and his eyes fell on his friend.

Zepp’o watched him with disappointment etched in every line on his face. Not the exasperated looks that were his way to hide his amusement, but crushing disappointment. 

“You gave up on me.” Zepp’o told him. Trist shook his head. “No.. No.. I’m sorry. Zep.”

Their voices began to run all at once, swirling around him; the gusts propelling the falling snow.

“You failed.”

“You could have saved me.”

“You stopped looking for me.”

“Why didn’t you save me Tris’tio?”

“Why didn’t you come back for us?”

“Why did you stand there and not act?”

Trist coiled like a spring and bolted. Wind rushed past him as he flew over the snow, only to run straight into Cecilia. She took him out, pressing him into the ground.

Lightning struck him, pain rocking his body as they crowded around him. The dead seemed to grow until they were towering over him. There was yelling in the distance.

The voices were louder now, bells tolling in his ears.

“You gave up on me.”

“Why didn’t you save me?”

He struggled to rise, only to have something heavy holding him into the snow. 

“Don't hurt him! It makes it more real!”

The lightning stopped, but the thunder of their voices still rolled around him as they pressed closer and closer around him. The weight of their words fell over him like the blows of a hammer. 

“Tris’tio we were friends.”

“You didn’t come back.”

“We went through hell together.”

Trist tried to answer them, words broken as he switched sentences in the middle of them. He struggled to answer them all at once.

“Why did you stand there listening to me screaming?”

“Why didn’t you do something?”

The snow felt harder under his face. Firm ground rather than ice. The voices continued. Trist tried to tell them. To make them understand. His words began to break into pieces as he cut them off and started new ones. Shattering as he fought to say the right thing. 

“Tris’tio, we were friends.”

“Tris’tio, we were brothers.”

“You said you would get me out of there.”

“Uh, Bria, can you go grab the clear injection for me. Now?”

The snow was back, Trist shifted his weight and the thing holding him down let him move, but did not let him up.

He continued to try to answer those around him who kept their stream of words.

“Why didn’t you save me Tris’tio?”

“Don’t you even know what being a brother means?”

“You could have kept me alive.”

“He slaughtered us all.”

“Your fault.”

“Ten.”

“You could have killed them to keep us safe.”

“Why have you stopped looking for me?”

“Something could have been done.”

“How dare you call yourself my brother.”

“Nine.”

“You knew something was wrong. Why didn’t you do anything?”

“Why did you leave me there?”

“We were supposed to be special.”

“Eight.”

“Why didn’t you save us?”

“Why did you wait and listen?”

“Why did you give up on me?”

“Seven.”

“Why didn’t you come back?”

“Why didn’t you stop me?”

“Six.”

“You can’t call me brother if you won’t even look for me.”

“Five.” 

“Why didn’t you act faster?”

“Four.”

“You left us to die.”

“Three.”

“You walked away.”

“Two.”

“You failed us.”

“One.”

“Why didn’t you save us, Tris’tio?”

Trist lay on the floor, trying and failing to answer them as snow melted into steel. His name, in their voices, ghosted around his mind before vanishing. 

It wasn’t Cecilia holding him down. It was Bella. It hadn’t been Sevens staring at him across the room, but the Major. Trist sighed and pressed his face into the cold floor, he was sure Bella could feel him shaking.

“Uh, Bella. You can get off me now.” He said, trying and failing to hold onto his neutral tone. She let him go and instead of rising, Trist took the opportunity to lay there on the floor, collecting his breath. When he did stand, he felt as if he'd been run over by an angry bantha. He remembered turning back to Bella and apologizing for his actions. He thanked Rista for the experience and moved to get the hell out of there. 

Trist kicked his chair as he passed it before returning to his place by the window. Without thinking, his hand found the top of the urn that stood on the sill.

When did his face get wet? His shoulders shook as rain fell on his floor. 

He stood and cried before his reflection until a numbness spread over his body, congealing into a hard knot in his chest. Mechanically he turned away from the window and sat at his desk, digging through the drawers to pull out a box of cigarettes. 

Trist stuck one between his teeth and lit it. Taking a breath and leaning back in his chair, he finished the stick in a single draw. Spitting the butt on his floor and grinding it out with his heel, the man pulled another cigarette out of its box and lit it again. Glancing at his holocomm to note the time, Trist sighed. It was well into the next morning. 

He held the cigarette lazily in his fingers, watching the smoke curl upwards towards his ceiling.

Cecilia stepped in front of him. She leaned close, bearing down.

“You waited,” She accused him, ice dripping from her chocolate hair onto his lap. “You watched her drag the life from me. You didn't stop her. Why didn't you stop her?”

Trist shook his head as he stared at her, eyes wide with fear. 

“I-I didn't- I tried-”

“You as good as killed me!” She shrieked, slamming her hands against his shoulders.

He jumped awake at the contact, heart racing. He pressed a shaking hand to his forehead trying to rub away the sight of the dead girl. 

When that didn't work, Trist began to clean. He stuck his cigarette in his teeth and left his room, intent on doing something, anything, that wouldn’t let that happen again. He spent the day reorganizing and scrubbing his apartments. When he was finished, he poured himself a drink, and collapsed on his sofa.

Outside, the rain raced in lines down his windows, singing happily as it did so. Trist watched it, enthralled with each droplet's progress.

“Agent.” Trist didn't look around, but waved a hand at Zepp’o. His friend tried again. “Agent.”

“Go away Snake,” Trist grumbled. “I've had a rough day.”

“Why aren't you looking for me?”

Trist stiffened, hackles rising at those words. 

“You call me brother, but you aren't looking for me.” Zepp’o snapped. Trist felt his hands go to his ears. He squeezed his eyes shut. Zepp’o crossed the room and Trist could smell his rotting flesh. 

“You aren't real.” Trist tried to say, his voice barely a whisper, his eyes still closed. “Zepp’o wouldn’t- he wouldn’t-”

“Get up.” Zepp’o ordered. He shoved Trist's shoulder, pushing him away from the sofa. Again, Trist woke with a start, this time, with cold sweat breaking out over his body, his drink sloshing over his hand.

Trist shuddered and jumped up from his place, drink forgotten, muttering rapidly in Chenuh trying to talk himself out of the terror that was slowly gripping his chest.

He pulled out a knife, rolled up his sleeve and drew a line in his skin. Red followed silver as the cut burned.

This is real. His blood was real. The pain seemed to burn through the fog of his fear, reassuring him that he was awake.

Another line, another trail.

This is real.

Another.

This is real. I am real.


End file.
